


Verschlimmbessern

by Aboutnothingness (Thesherlockholmes)



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: (after the fallout), Christmas Gift Fic, Gen, Heartbreak, Hot Space Era, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Internal Monologue, Munich era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:47:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28250358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thesherlockholmes/pseuds/Aboutnothingness
Summary: Nevertheless, nevermind mind-numbing extravagance and serial lovers, the failures continued to haunt him, reminders mocking at one turn and then another—always when least expected and always unwelcome. Nothing seemed left for him in England. And so, he left. Packed up a bag and went to Munich.After the less than successful reception of Hot Space, Freddie goes to Munich.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	Verschlimmbessern

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chaibrows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaibrows/gifts).



> Happy Christmas, Catherine! You've become such a wonderful friend this year. Thanks for all the discussions about our dear Freddie & co., all the jokes, all the otherwise silly (or more serious) conversation. All the best wishes to you for the New Year! ❤️

Verschlimmbessern (noun) – an attempted improvement that only makes things worse

-

The last album had gone over badly, criticised and torn down by fans and press alike, and everyone was stressed and nerve-edge raw. Snapping at each other is one thing, even walk-outs (one or two) are par for the course, but pure vitriol? Anger and dissatisfaction from every corner is quite another. So bad had it gotten, all inner fighting like never before, that collectively they decided they needed a year out. Everyone saying, ‘I can’t do another album yet’, hidden warning that pushing it might just end it all together.

And really, maybe it was his fault. In part anyway, two-thirds? A great deal his fault. He wanted daring, something new. No one else liked the direction, though. He’s had worse ideas, there’s credit in that. And the reason for the sea change?

So disturbed was he by the string of failed relationships, that he wanted no reminder. Not in his music, not in what he must write, in nothing. Nevertheless, nevermind mind-numbing extravagance and serial lovers, the failures continued to haunt him, reminders mocking at one turn and then another—always when least expected and always unwelcome. Nothing seemed left for him in England. And so, he left. Packed up a bag and went to Munich.

The place had _sparkled_ when the band worked there earlier, the scene fun and different. Just what he needed. A bit of a relax, a bit of fun. He bloody well deserved it.

He, formerly drowned in misery and self-loathing—an admittedly blamable and intolerable offense in the end—rid himself of those vestiges of pain long ago, and had committed (not-offhandedly in any way) to Bill. And yet, that was doomed as well. Another bed to make and lay in, alcohol stench in the air. And who from? It was, at times, difficult to say with certainty. It too had ended after too many fights, after too many bruises; split lips, black eyes, a cheekbone shiner.

This time, it was Bill’s fault, not his; how, after all, could it have been his? He had tried.

And how, _exactly,_ did you try?

Fuck off. (Both thought and repeated pattern.)

Fast romances are worth little, a few months is nothing to fuss over. But he is so sick of it. Sick of long nights, blurred lights, unfamiliar hands, always trying to find someone to stay, of being riddled all the while with worry and doubt. Well, he just wants too much, is far too greedy. Let all your wants go and be happy with what you get. An old lesson from his childhood, now twisted and nearly strangled by the truth that love is a necessity that is slippery, fleeting, and painful when grasped and doubly so, when lost. He is already whipped lung to lung, now also whipped he is to his heart, beat to beat in both.

Enough with it all, then. It's a useless task. These things don't exist as they do in your head, in the words you weave into delightful fairy tales. That is the romance itself. This? _Life?_ It is hard, a world of getting your blows—bad choice of words, darling. Yes, enough of the race for companionship. Another country and nothing to fuss about. He’ll give it all right up, this thought of long-lasting love, and live life by the day. A first—living on his own!

That turns out to work marvellously, he thinks during his second week in Munich, riffling through his suitcases for the ornamentation he was _sure_ he brought to brighten up hotel rooms that are always impersonal and drab, no matter the cost. Really, he could slum it perfectly happily in a cheap room if he weren't so used to luxury. He finds the Cartier carriage clock, the two silver framed pictures of Tom and Jerry. They were good cats, he thinks in passing; a sweet, ancient memory of first naive, almost-innocent loves. He misses feline friends, but that is just another thing to have given up in this move. It’s really for the best.

Now, his life is a constant party; strings of them, fun filled days and nights nearly inseparable from each other. He hardly sleeps anyway, but it becomes entirely unnecessary now, in a haze of cocaine as he is; even more so than the previous years, he’s by now no stranger to it.

Quiet moments like this are rare, for better or worse.

Why, better, of course my dear! Who doesn't want this life? You’d be mad not to!

Hung over, but not badly, he is in definite need of a shower. Perhaps he still smells of another's sweat, another's come. What happened last night, after those first hours at the club, after those first few lines and shots of vodka, mellowed by strong German lager? Whatever he did is washed away in the hotel showers’ stream, luxury shampoo washing the stale scent out of his hair. The forgotten memory soothed by warm water and a strong will to put the blank hours and hazy remembrances out of his mind.

It doesn't matter, it's fun, all just some fun!

Even in his mind, it sounds hollow, unconvincing, and (though he will not admit to it in daylight) settles a foreboding sick in his stomach, a tightness in his shoulders.

The old song comes to mind: don’t stop me now. No one liked that, Brian quietly hated it. He would hate this, wouldn't he? Wouldn't they all be disgusted? They certainly were before and now...

He gets out of the shower, wraps himself in a fluffy bathrobe, trims his moustache with the precise care he always does. Cannot be falling apart, cannot be looking less than our best, now can we? He smirks, eyes familiarly mischievous and challenging.

No, he’s doing just fine. This is a good idea, of course it is. Not a thing to worry about.

Well, another day at his disposal. What will the fun be today?


End file.
